


bric-a-brac

by be_cum



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-05-10 12:50:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be_cum/pseuds/be_cum
Summary: Little things I wrote all collected together in one place for the sake of posterity.





	1. "The sound of hooves on the pavement hasn't faded yet before the man slumped down in relief, next to the unconscious body on the floor."

**Author's Note:**

> No particular order, I just scroll down my trevilieu tag and copy-paste everything as I go, lol. Shout out to team trevilieu! You are the best fandom a fangirl can ever hope for.  
> I just want to collect all those bits and bobs in one place, so yeah.

The sound of hooves on the pavement hasn’t faded yet before the man slumped down in relief, next to the unconscious body on the floor.

“The help is coming,” Treville says reassuringly. Considering that the body on his left is unable to neither reply nor be reassured, Treville mostly says it for his own comfort.

He carefully props the head on his knees and slips two fingers under tight collar to touch clammy skin and find weak and jittery heartbeat.

“And since I have such rare opportunity to say everything I think about you and your stupid decisions without you harping inane nonsense back, it would be a shame to let this opportunity slip.” The words are harsh and dismissive, yet Treville is gentle with his touch. As gentle as a hard-headed soldier can be. “You are a bloody idiot.”

 _Quite literally_ , Treville thinks absent-mindedly; his eyes keep squarely away from a deep graze on the temple.

“And if you dare to die on me, just to spite me,” Treville continues, gripping limp and thin hand tightly, “You’ll never hear the end of it, so you better not try to push your luck.”

The body next to and partially on him was unconscious and silent, yet Treville could swear on his life that he felt a weak, imperceptible squeeze back.


	2. here and now [Modern!AU]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> team trevilieu drew them and i'm screaming https://freyalor.tumblr.com/post/161466326378/professor-armand-richelieu-tenured-teacher-in

Happiness isn’t a perpetual state but a sequence of fleeting moments.  
Contentedness, however, is making peace with yourself and feeling like you have nowhere to be but here and now, in this moment and the next.

Richelieu feels happiness one uneventful, quiet evening. Richelieu has a glass of red wine perched on the coffee table; ice clinks against the sides of a tumbler each time Treville absent-mindedly swirls whiskey around as he is busy catching up on reading.

Richelieu thinks that they will soon get to bed. He thinks that he is looking forward to cooking breakfast for his family. He’s most certainly looking forward to spending thirty minutes passing toast and butter, reading out bits and pieces from his morning aloud, helping himself to the eggs on Treville’s plate, listening to Lois’ excited chatter, Milady and Athos’ bickering, feeling Treville’s warm knee pressing against his own.

He never had anything to look forward to; to look forward to things that make him happy.

Richelieu has never felt it and he’s useless at being happy. He thinks that so many things can and will go wrong; because he’s Richelieu and has failed to keep anything good life deigns to send his way.

Treville, still with his attention fully immersed in his book, absent-mindedly reaches for Richelieu’s hand, as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world; to touch a ridiculous fool you love like he deserves it, like you want to be nowhere but by his side; here and now, tomorrow morning and then.

“Stop worrying,” Treville says. “I can hear you having a crisis from my seat.”

“I wasn’t having—”

“No idea what you are worrying about and, frankly, I don’t really care.” Treville continues. “Let me finish this chapter and then let’s go to bed. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

Tomorrow starts at six am for Richelieu. He wants to let himself sixty seconds of waking up, listening to faint snoring to his left. He wants to make waffles for breakfast and steal strawberries from Treville’s plate and have his waffle getting picked at by Louis. He wants to get a thank-you kiss on the cheek from his children for making lunch. He wants to see Milady’s first smile of the day and hear Athos’ annoyed grumble when the cats leave hair all over his trousers.

There are so many things in tomorrow to look forward to.

“Tomorrow it’s going to be of no importance,” Richelieu says. “Read faster. I want tomorrow to come sooner.”


	3. The 'L' word [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richelieu thinks that they are too old, they are full grown men to avoid niceties and “I-love-you” declarations, they are not fucking teenagers.

“I’m going to sleep and so are you,” Treville says and leans over Richelieu to turn off the lamp. “You should get more sleep. You are unbearable in the mornings.”

“Aren’t I always,” Richelieu grumbles but puts away his laptop obediently.

“Pretty much. Good night,” Treville yawns and Richelieu swears that the fleeting press of his lips to his temple isn’t accidental but a kiss. “Love you.”

We could say that Richelieu didn’t sleep until dawn but it would be a lie. Richelieu fell asleep, lulled by Treville’s breathing and he slept straight through the night, warmed by reassuring hand touching his.

/

“Coffee,” a clink of a mug against the wood. “Toast,” smell of warm bread and melting butter. “Egg.”

“No jam?”

“Absolutely not,” Richelieu replies. “No preservatives in the morning.”

“You are insufferable,” Treville complains. “Could’ve just said that we ran out.”

“Also that,” Richelieu concedes.

“I’ll bring you lunch.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Watch me,” Treville says vindictively, biting his jamless toast with vehemence.

Richelieu leans back on his chair and thinks that he wants every future morning to be like this.

“I love you,” he says, surprising himself but not Treville.

“Hope so,” Treville replies peacefully. “Otherwise it would be very awkward.”


	4. allies [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richelieu adopted Milady and they are off to a rocky start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the visuals: http://becumsh.tumblr.com/post/161562276360/trevilieu-modern-au-richelieu-in-politics-the  
> http://becumsh.tumblr.com/post/161592951495/trevilieu-modern-au-still-richelieu-until-ill

Her bed creaks.

It doesn’t really bother her – she’s used to sleeping in much rougher conditions, honestly, but the sound is so crisp in the night silence, uninterrupted by anyone’s breathing or snoring, that it disconcerts her.

It’s not that she’s too hot or too cold, or that the bedsheets don’t smell of being boiled within the inch of their life, or that she can’t find a comfortable position and keeps turning. She doesn’t care that the mattress is too sturdy and flat with no dips to accommodate the curves of human body.

She just can’t sleep. The bed creaks and the sound makes her skin crawl. It’s not because it’s the first night here and it’s strange and unfamiliar. It’s not.

Finally, Milady gives up and swings her legs from the bed. The parquet is warm under her feet but she slides her feet in the slippers anyway, just in case.

The cold tiles under the soles of her feet, cracked and chipped, the dirt getting stuck between her toes.

She tip toed to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cold milk. She was told that she’s allowed to do so if she wants.

On her way back, Milady noticed a line of yellow light coming from behind the door. When she left, the neon blue digits of the stove clock informed her that it’s well past three a.m.

‘May be the cats are afraid of the dark,’ she thinks. ‘Or he forgot to switch the lamp off.’

She leaves and doesn’t hear the rustle of papers, a mug being lifted and drunk from.

Three days later she needs to pee, and again, the light is pouring from the room that’s next to the kitchen.

‘Definitely the cats,’ Milady decides and returns to the room she is allowed to call her own.

Before she goes back to sleep, she checks the contents of a small suitcase under her bed. Clothes, two books she stole from the orphanage library and three chocolate bars nicked from the pantry. There are also two stale biscuits wrapped in a toilet paper and hidden in the pocket of her dress but it’s an emergency stash for the time when she’ll be really desperate because they taste of card box when they are fresh and Milady doesn’t dare to think about how they taste now.

Two weeks in, and Milady sleeps much better.

“Anne, be more civil to your roommates. It’s your fault that you are getting picked at; I’m sure that if you’ll try to be nicer they’ll stop.”

“Your parents abandoned because you are horrible. My mummy will find me and you will rot here until they kick you out, you monster.”

It’s four in the morning. The bedsheets smell faintly of lavender and detergent. Also, when her feet touch the floor, it’s warm and feels wooden and also there’s cat hair. There are no cats in the orphanage. She’s exactly one hundred and forty five miles away from the orphanage, she checked.

At quarter past five, Milady finishes gulping cold water from the tap in the kitchen.

Four twenty five and she comes to conclusion that she won’t be able to sleep any time soon.

Milady pads into the study. She is allowed to take a book if she wants to. She was warned that the majority of them are boring. She thinks that while she’s at it, she might as well turn the lamp off.

She walks in and slightly jumps at the sight.

“Bad dream?” he turns and raises his thick eyebrows.

He introduced himself as Armand Richelieu. He said that he’s her new father. She replied that she never had one.

“No.” Milady replies.

“Right.” Richelieu blinks a few times. “Um. Are you hungry? Or do you want another blanket?”

“May I take a book?” she asks as civilly as she can.

Richelieu shrugs and points at the shelves. Milady comes closer and picks the slimmest and the one that looks the least boring.

Her new parent watches her carefully, a pile of papers lying forgotten in front of him.

“You can stay here, if you want,” he suddenly offers.

Milady feels her skin prickling, her palms sweaty, breath ragged. May be the offer isn’t so sudden.

“Okay,” she agrees and sits on the sofa.

Five pages in and the book proves to be as boring as the rest of its peers on the shelf.

“Are you always here every night?” she asks.

Richelieu hums.

“Don’t you work during the day?”

He’s up before her every morning, already cooking hot breakfast when she brushes her teeth. Occasionally, there are some burnt or undercooked bits. But the food is better than in orphanage’s canteen and she’s not picky anyway. He drinks his coffee black and sickly sweet judging by the amount of sugar he loads in the mug.

Richelieu quietly chuckles.

“I do. It’s just people whom I work with do nothing so I have to do their job.”

Milady quirks the corner of her mouth at that.

“Do you sleep?”

“Of course. Adults don’t need as much sleep as children do.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Richelieu replies. “It’s twenty to five.”

The silence in the study is softer than in her room. Gentler.

Richelieu rubs his eyes and lets out a long breath.

It’s a very big apartment and there are far more rooms than one man needs.

“Why?” Milady asks out of curiosity. “Could’ve gotten a cat if you were lonely. Getting a child is a bit extreme.”

“I have three,” Richelieu points out. “Besides, I’m a politician. Looks good in the media.”

“There were dozens of other children. They are nicer. More suitable for your purposes.”

Cherubic and angelic, ready to rip your throat out if they see that some parents look at you longer than a split of a second.

Be nice, or they will send you back. You monster, he will kick you out as soon as he finds out who you really are. Miss, she kicked me. Miss, I swear, I never touched her plate.

“Why don’t we have a cup of tea,” tired voice rips her away from the memory lane. “And then we’ll go to sleep.”

Milady reluctantly follows him into the kitchen. Richelieu stops in his tracks.

“You don’t have to drink from the tap,” he finally says. “There’s decanter with filtered water on the table.”

She shrugs and climbs on the seat at the far corner. He starts the kettle and rummages in the pantry. He offers her a chocolate bar. She takes it.

The tea tastes faintly floral and lemony. Richelieu brings her a hoodie because apparently she’s got goose bumps as her pyjamas don’t have sleeves. He himself sports a very old and very ugly fleece that in the dim and distant past used to be of some monochromatic colour. Milady doesn’t comment on it.

“So, want to talk about the dream?” he offers.

Milady clenches her jaw. “I didn’t have a dream.” She discreetly slips the Twix in the pocket of her hoodie.

“Okay.” Richelieu takes a sip from his mug.

“There are nicer children.” Milady repeats.

“Ready to murder you if a future parent even speaks a word to you, yeah,” he snorts.

“Who said I’m not?”

Richelieu laughs at that.

“I mean, you can always ask for a replacement. They are ready to call you ‘Daddy’ and everything the first time they meet you.” Milady persists. She tries not to grip the chocolate in her pocket so it doesn’t melt. She needs to put it in her suitcase later on.

“You don’t like it here?” He asks, furrowing his brows.

“It’s okay,” she clenches her fists. He will kick you out as soon as he finds out what a nasty bitch you are. Language! Miss, she started it first.

She is no victim. She starts it first. She kicks and bites and replies with snide remarks. They leave her alone, and for the time being it’s all fine until it all starts all over again.

“You are not going to go back, you know.” She flinches. The Twix wrap crunches. Richelieu pretends he doesn’t notice. “The paperwork is too tedious to begin with.”

“I’m not nice.” Milady finally says. The skin of Richelieu’s hands looks bleak in the early morning light.

“Neither am I.” He states. “So I don’t think that anything what personnel told me can faze me.”

He knows, Milady realises with a cold dread. Problematic child, the Headmaster sighed. As if she’s the only one. This one has anger management issues. She’s just not good at hiding it.

“Why me?” she asks, clenching sticky palms nervously. “Why not another cat?”

Richelieu rubs his forehead and looks like he has no idea.

“Cats don’t talk.” He offers. When she sceptically raises her eyebrows, he relents. “I saw you being cornered by one of those nicer children when the staff wasn’t looking. And I thought, ‘she’s a fighter. I could use her help.’”

“Hm.” His eyes are huge, red-rimmed and half-hidden under papery eyelids. They are grey, not like the floor tiles in the orphanage, some unfamiliar hue. He didn’t tell her the whole truth but for now it’s enough.

If he’s heard everything about her, maybe he doesn’t really care.

“You want an ally,” she says.

“Well, when you put it this way it sounds slightly wrong, but if it makes you comfortable, so be it.”

“I don’t care,” Milady shrugs.

His hand hovers as if he wants to touch her but retreats in a flash, so quickly, that Milady just probably dreamt it all. She doesn’t need comfort anyway. She never clung to staff at the orphanage because it’s pathetic. It’s not that they liked her at any rate, they always avoid her. No one likes problematic children. Problematic children don’t like them in return, so it seems fair.

“I won’t call you ‘Dad’ or whatever.” She warns him. She’s heard that it’s anticipated.

“Don’t expect you to.” He takes her mug and when Milady volunteers to wash their cups, he just waves his hand dismissively.

“Like, ever,” she elaborates. It’s not just because it’s only been a little over two weeks. Parent means care and love. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to trust him so much to accept him. Doesn’t seem like he’s planning to give her that anyway.

“’Richelieu’ works just fine,” he smiles thinly.

“So you don’t get upset, or angry, or anything over it.” She adds hastily as she stands up from her seat.

“Promise, I won’t get upset, or angry, or anything over it.” Richelieu vows. “Just… Settle here. Make yourself comfortable. Unpack your suitcase. You are here for a while.”

Richelieu tries to look reassuring. He asks her to trust him in that.

This, Milady decides, she can give. Allies should trust each other to some extent.

“Um,” Milady falters, hovering at the door. “Richelieu?”

He looks up, question in his eyes.

“Good morning,” she lamely offers.

He chuckles and wishes her to sleep well.

In her room, Milady opens her suitcase and carefully puts the Twix bar. After a moment of hesitation, she pulls out a crumpled wad wrapped in a toilet paper and throws it in the bin.

It’s almost six.

When she falls asleep at ten past, just on the edge of consciousness, she hears a sound of steps in the corridor, water running.

When she wakes up seven hours later, there’s oatmeal in the pot ready to be warmed up in the microwave, an apple and a post-it note.

When she’s read it three times over, she folds it carefully and hides it in-between the pages of one of her books.

She puts the book on her bedside table and starts to unpack the rest of her things.


	5. mundane is good [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville and Richelieu are comfortable with each other, at ease. Together, they are in such sync that they even finish each other’s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sandwiches

I told you not to pick me up.” Treville grumbles. “I could’ve got on the tube.”

“Yeah, after a 12-hour shift. As if it’s going to happen.” Richelieu points at the passenger sit.

“Have you had lunch?” Treville asks. Always worried. Richelieu inwardly rolls his eyes.

“Yes. Here are the leftovers.” He digs out a slightly crumpled sandwich bag. “They should keep you going until we get home.”

“Richelieu, three nibbles off a sad sandwich do not count as lunch.”

“There are more than three.”

“There are exactly three.” Treville nearly shoves the sandwich at Richelieu’s face. “I’m well accustomed to your teeth pattern.”

Richelieu exhales. Seriously, this man sometimes is insufferable.

“Eat.” Treville takes a bite of a stale cheese and ham sandwich and holds out the remaining mush of bread and filling.

“I haven’t washed my hands. And I’m driving.” Richelieu points out.

“Eat.”

“You are insufferable.” Richelieu informs him once he’s chewed down what was supposed to be his lunch.

Treville grins. There’s a fleck of mayonnaise in the corner of his mouth.

“I know.”


	6. holidays [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville and Richelieu don’t really go on holidays because they are both homebodies. Also, Richelieu doesn’t like to leave cats for longer than absolutely necessary, so holidays are quite a rare occasion.
> 
> However, Treville got dragged into camping by Athos, Porthos, Aramis, D'Artagnan and Constance. And he really got into it.
> 
> You can guess that it was hard for Richelieu to enthuse over the fact that camping includes lack of proper showers and slightly anti-sanitary conditions for his standards.
> 
> Milady and Richelieu refused to go so they all came up with a compromise: a secluded cabin with showers and basic fruits of civilisation for a week.
> 
> Cats were left with Constance’s boyfriend, Lemay, who swore and crossed his heart that he’d follow Richelieu’s 17 pages long list, keep him updated and send pictures.
> 
> So they all spent a week in a cabin (a cottage, really, there were a lot of people). The enthusiasts for camping were wandering around and those (exactly two people) who weren’t keen on it, spent time rather fruitfully. Milady was putting finishing touches on her dissertation, Richelieu was catching up on sleep because the election year is always dreadfully hectic.

Treville took a picture of him sleeping. Richelieu fell asleep in his reading glasses and those glasses always made Treville go weak at his knees.

“How’s the walk?” Richelieu, light sleeper as always, woke up when the mattress dipped under Treville’s weight.

“You’re cold,” Treville said softly, taking off the glasses and putting them on a bedside table next to his phone.

“I can’t go around people’s room stealing blankets.” 

“Thought so.” Treville folded himself into bed slotting next to his husband. Under the duvet it was warmer than Treville would like but it was alright. The fleece of Richelieu’s jacket was soft under his fingers. “Warmer now?”

“What did you want?” Richelieu said, almost asleep but still conscious enough to feel and hear everything.

“Oh, nothing.” Treville planted a kiss on the nearest part of Richelieu he could reach.

“Well, can I back go to sleep now?” Richelieu replied grouchily.

“Course you can.” Treville said. 

So Richelieu finally dozed off and Treville was there for a whole another hour and a half, thinking about nothing in particular. The kids who stopped being kids long time ago but still were kids to him were wandering about, outside was a crisp and chilly afternoon, his ridiculous husband was in his arms sleeping and slightly drooling.

Richelieu was slightly frowning in his sleep but otherwise his face was devoid of any worries, relaxed and content. His wedding ring faintly reflected the dim grey light when it peaked out of the duvet.

 _‘God, I want to spend the rest of my life with you,’_ Treville thought. And it hit him with such clarity it was almost terrifying.

He always thought that his relationship with Richelieu was more or less of a permanent fixture but he never really thought about ten, twenty, or even thirty years time.

They will have grandchildren. They will have more cats. They will eventually retire somewhere on the coast away from the city, so Richelieu’s lungs get better after that nasty bout of pneumonia. The cottage will have to be a one floor building since Treville’s knee bothers him more and more often. Their kids and grandkids will visit. They will row over petty things, they will have fights and domestics. They will drink lemonade sitting on a porch. They’ll have evening walks. They’ll be known as 'that gay old married couple with however many cats Richelieu will want to get’. Richelieu will take him out on dates, hold his hand in sleep and gift him these rare and brilliant smiles.

Thirty years is such a long time. Treville couldn’t imagine himself being anywhere else but Richelieu’s side.

He’d say “marry me” but the vows were already said and the rings were exchanged.

There was little left of him to offer to Richelieu. He couldn’t promise him anything he hadn’t already.

“I can hear you thinking. Why coming up here if you weren’t going to sleep?” Richelieu grumbled sleepily.

So Treville held him closer, keeping him warm and safe. And it was an answer in itself.


	7. a study in linguistics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if my english fics look like they are some kind of linguistic excercise, here’s the secret: they probably are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tatzelwyrm challenged me to write a, I quote, "pretentious, purply Trevilieu fic" using the vocabulary my English tutor told me to learn for homework. A stupid crackfic written for fun. The words I had to use are in bold.

It was another pleasant evening at Palais Cardinal. **The atmosphere** in the dining quarters was **imbued with the spirit of amicability** which occurred so rarely when you happened to witness the First Minister of France and the Captain of the King’s musketeers being in the same room.

“I enjoyed the meal **immensely** ,” Treville admitted, **relishing** the wine.

“I’m glad to hear it, Captain,” Richelieu replied with **contentment** in his voice. “I **derived a great satisfaction** from the beef myself.”

“It wasn’t the food that stole my interest today,” Treville continued, **exceedingly** pleased with himself, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Your poetry was a **limelight** of this evening. The **floodlights** couldn’t shine as bright as your words of wisdom did.”

“No chance, Captain,” Richelieu said dryly, the blush creeping up his cheeks. Treville grinned. He knew perfectly well what **adulation** to his writings did to the Cardinal. Treville was no **obsequious** sycophant and Richelieu didn’t take his opinion for granted. Besides, Treville had other means behind his flattery. The **bereavement** of his favourite cat left Richelieu inconsolable for weeks and for the past few days he was **sorely vexed** because Spain refused to cooperate. With their **upper lip stiff** , Spanish pretended to be ignorant of the conflicts between Huguenots and Catholics and this left Cardinal with migraine for weeks long. This evening, however, Richelieu seemed to be more than open to distractions.

The night, so far, was promising to be **auspicious**.

“Spain is full of **conmen** ,” Richelieu huffed. He was pacing around the dining room, a glass of red wine in his pale, slender hand. The **train** of his dark cloak followed him as he walked. He did it on purpose, Treville decided. Richelieu was as **vain** as any young lady-in-waiting at Court was if not worse.

Suddenly, Richeleiu disappeared from Treville’s **field of vision**.

“However,” Richelieu said behind him, in his, for the lack of a better word, seductive voice. “Spanish armada is none of your concern, Captain.”

“You’re a **connoisseur** of such things, Cardinal.” Treville murmured. “You, standing on the **gangways** of French fleet. This is definitely a concern of mine.”

The night thereafter was exceedingly quiet let alone some noises the servants chose to ignore.


	8. mornings [Modern!AU]

Richelieu wakes up five minutes before the alarm, allows himself exactly sixty seconds of lying in bed, then gets out and leaves the bedroom followed by one of the cats.

He knocks at the door and hears a lazy rustle of sheets.

The alarm goes off and then promptly shuts up because some people will hit that snooze button until the very last moment.

Someone stealthily put black toothpaste in the groceries last weekend. Richelieu almost got used to it, because this phase lasts for quite a while in this household, but the toothpaste still looks disturbing when you actually brush your teeth with it.

When he finishes with the shower and shaving, the snooze button gets hit yet another time.

Cat food rattles as he fills five bowls with it.

Another alarm in another bedroom goes off.

Richelieu prepares coffee for three and fishes out the travel mug out of the dishwasher.

Four slices of toast. Another four three minutes later. They are running out of milk, he finds when he inspects the fridge. Richelieu hears that someone finally deigned to wake up and now there’s a sinister battle for the shower.

In the kitchen, however, it’s blessedly quiet.

The family likes scrambled eggs over soft-boiled, but since the family hit the snooze button about 18 times in total now, they don’t deserve the scramble, and besides, Richelieu has a history with the scramble no one wants a repetition of.

So he turns off the stove, gives the counter a last swipe and heads back to the bedroom, knocking on the doors (“Breakfast’s ready!”) once more as he passes.

“We should lock the bedroom at night,” Treville huffs. “I woke up and that damn cat was sleeping on my face.”

“You should wake up before they have breakfast, honestly.” Richelieu rolls his eyes. “And no one would queue for the bathroom.”

“That cat just should stay away from my face,” Treville pick out the tie and wraps it around Richelieu’s neck, aiming for a half-Windsor.

“They are warm,” Richelieu replies as he buttons up his shirt. “I get cold at night.”

“You stole all the blankets yet again, you can’t possibly get cold.”

Richelieu puts on his jacket. Treville straightens out the tie and steps back, smoothing out the lapels.

“Scramble?” Treville asks.

“Not a chance and you know it,” Richelieu retorts.

Everyone has already gathered around the table by the time they walk into the kitchen. Milady chews on toast. Louis inspects the egg.

“Morning,” Milady says handing Richelieu fresh newspaper. Black nails, black pyjamas. The phase is still on, it seems.

“The eggs turned out alright,” Louis brightly informs them. “Mostly.”

“Tell your Dad to finally admit that he sucks at cooking,” Treville says as he pours coffee for Richelieu and himself.

“I don’t deny it, I merely point out that I’m the only one conscious enough in the morning to actually prepare food.”

“There’s second best human invention and it’s called a bowl of cereal. And it takes about thirty seconds to make.” Treville puts a mug of black coffee in front of him. The ring clinks when it connects with white ceramic.

“No fibre and little substance.” The newspapers keep it quiet which is good to know. He needs to talk with the Minister before the afternoon’s meeting.

“No wonder you and Constance get on like a house on fire.” Treville grumbles and plops a generous dollop of jam on his toast.

“I still see no point in doing this,” Milady complains. “I’m on a break. Louis is too. We deserve a lie-in.”

“Breakfasts and dinners are eaten together,” Treville says firmly and takes a bite of his toast. “God, you actually are getting better. It’s even edible.”

“I’m a quick learner,” Richelieu replies primly and takes a sip from his mug.

“You ate, you are leaving,” Milady yawns. “Can I go to bed now? Say to Athos I said hi.”

“I don’t think he’s going to appreciate it after a night shift.” Treville grabs a travel mug of coffee for Athos as he heads towards the door.

Richelieu folds the newspaper and follows.

“Busy day?” Treville asks as he helps Richelieu into his coat.

“I’ll manage.”

“Don’t you always,” Treville kisses his cheek and smiles.


	9. My husband is a cat lady [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Treville’s team finds out that their Captain has a partner, let alone a husband, because they always assumed he is this sort of an old lady who has 2 cats in lieu of social life.

A stranger barges in the precinct like he owns it, walks into Treville’s office and shuts the door.

About fifteen minutes later, they both walk out, Treville holding the stranger’s red trench coat.

“—Did you come all the way down here to harass my taste in movies?”

“You forgot your phone. Again. And I was taking Soumise to a vet anyway, it’s down this street. And for the last time, that abomination will not even come close to our DVD player.” The stranger hands Treville his phone.

“Jesus, please let it not be what I’m thinking,” D'Artagnan whispers to his colleagues.

“You are insufferable,” Treville grumbles, helping the stranger into his coat.

“And yet you are still here,” the stranger retorts as Treville straightens the lapels on his coat.

“Blackmail,” Treville replies. He gives a stranger a peck on the lips. “Go away and bother your students.”

“This is shaping up to be exactly what are you thinking,” Aramis replied. “Our Captain is actually dating.”

The stranger rolls his eyes and leaves as quickly as he entered.

Treville looks at their gobsmacked faces.

“What?”

“We all thought you are a lonely old cat lady with two cats and no social life.”

“My husband is an old cat lady. And we have five.”

“Husband?”

“Five?!”

“What the fuck?” D'Artagnan says because he always says exactly what he is thinking.

“Of course I have a husband! Why on earth do you think I leave work to be at home at 7pm?” Treville says indignantly.

“We thought your cats are very particular about their eating habits.”

“ _He_ is annoyingly particular about their eating habits. And ours. It’s ruling my home life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In all fairness, Treville wasn’t hiding the fact that he’s married. The only personal item on his desk is a photo frame, for goodness sake.
> 
> Richelieu looks like a ridiculous grumpy old owl in it. Treville finds this picture endlessly hilarious and he absolutely loves it. Richelieu doesn’t even know it exists.


	10. after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death is only a door (afterlife is not what it says on the tin).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character(s) death I guess. But it’s all good.  
> Been stalking Reign finale gifs, and this just sort of happened.

Of course he feels pain. But he had felt it innumerable times, from the abrasion of his old bones against each other, to a dull throb of his shoulder that has never been the way it used to be after that duel with Labarge, to the red and blinding pain of gunshot wounds.

He has got so used to it, that now it’s a faint tremor at the edges of his mind, a background noise, it holds so little of his attention that he can’t help himself but drift off to thoughts he never had time for.

His thoughts go for a fatherless King, an innocent child with a heavy burden of the French crown on his cherubic curls with no one to guide him; he thinks of his country he spent decades protecting that crumbles beneath his palms to dust, he thinks of his men. He thinks of his found family: Constance’s blinding smile, D’Artagnan’s bright eyes, Athos’ face lit up with pride, Aramis’ jokes, and Porthos’ boisterous laughter, and his daughter, a grandchild Treville will never get to see.

And when the darkness took over his consciousness, like a drop of ink in a pot of water, he thought what’s been on his mind for years:

“How the hell am I going to find him now?”

/

To his slight disappointment the Gates of Hell (or Heaven, if he’s lucky) are distantly familiar and regretfully mundane.

They are, for the lack of a better word, a door.

Treville gives it a decisive push.

There are no scintillating light and blessed singing of the angels. There are no screams of sinners and ground burning under his feet.

Afterlife is clinically bureaucratic. It has a bare office desk with a chair. He’s not much for furnishing, but they could have at least hang some curtains.

Treville closes his eyes and takes his first steps, keeping his gaze on the floor just in case it starts to boil or some archangel might want to confiscate his clothes in lieu of figs leaves. Great honour, but he’ll pass.

“Jean.”

He stops mere inches away from the window at the end of the room. Cowardice has never been his trait yet he can barely stop himself from trembling as he looks up.

He looks as Treville remembers him. He looks even younger for there are no lines of distress and pain on his face, only tender wonder.

“Jean,” he repeats with uncertainty. And the look of uncertainty does not belong on Cardinal Richelieu’s face, so Treville takes it into his hands and alleviates those ridiculous doubts with a kiss.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Fool.”

“That makes the two of us, then, for you have been looking for me.”

“So I have,” Treville concedes. It’s been such a long time, and he does not want to argue with Richelieu just yet.

“I’m not so sure about the beard,” Richelieu says and touches his face, his palm soft and cool, and Treville leans into it. “But age does look good on you. I’m glad you took your time.”

“It’s been so difficult, Armand. So difficult. I failed France. And now—”

“Shush.” Richelieu steps closer, and Treville instinctively wraps his hands around his waist. “You’ve done admirably. I couldn’t have managed it better.”

Treville laughs and breathes in faint smell of Richelieu’s skin on the temple. “Liar. You have no idea what’s been going on lately, don’t you?”

“Tell me?” Richelieu asks. “Tell me how have you been.”

“Later.” Treville brings him closer. Feeling the warmth of Richelieu’s body against his own. The handprint against where the gunshots were, thin lips covering his own. “Later.”

The stand there for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus:
> 
> Hell (or Heaven, if he’s extremely lucky) looks rather lacklustre. 
> 
> He does not feel pain. That is a blessing. 
> 
> He is, however, acutely feeling an empty space that has been always filled over the past several decades. 
> 
> Which is a blessing still, though it doesn’t stop him from feeling rather miserable. 
> 
> “Oh, err, Armand-Jean du Plessis de—“ a quick glance at the papers, “Richelieu. Cardinal.” Archangel Michael looks disappointingly wingless and restless. “If you be so kind and follow me...”
> 
> The decision is swift and definitive. Come to think of it, it was never a choice in the first place. 
> 
> “That paperwork in your hand looks rather heavy,” Richelieu says conversationally. 
> 
> “Oh, yes,” Michael says eagerly as he hasn’t had a sympathetic ear for the past millennia. “Must fill all of it, as soon as I’ll see you off. You are quite a conundrum, Your Eminence. No offence, but Hell wouldn’t take you for some reason—”
> 
> Lord, Richelieu suppresses a smile. That should not feel as satisfying as it does.
> 
> “No need for paperwork,” Richelieu replies.
> 
> “I wish,” Michael says wistfully. 
> 
> “No need for seeing me off wherever, too,” Richelieu adds and carefully extricates all the papers from archangel’s surprised grasp. “I need to pass the time, the table over there looks perfectly serviceable.”
> 
> “Cardinal, I know your piety, I assure there’s no need to atone for your, you know. Eden is a charming place.”
> 
> “I need to wait for him,” Richelieu says absent-mindedly. He’s already absorbed in the work, otherwise he would never let that slip. “The fool can’t find his own armour within two feet on some mornings, how do you expect him to wander around, looking?”
> 
> “I’m not following.”
> 
> “He’ll be looking for me.” Richelieu looks up. He cares not for sin simply because he could never conjure up a world where Jean would be considered as one. “He’ll be looking for me, and I want to wait for that ridiculous fool so he doesn’t get lost.”
> 
> Archangel Michael thinks a lot of things, and Richelieu can read his train of thoughts easily. Richelieu keeps his gaze level and does not look away.
> 
> Archangel Michael relents. 
> 
> “I’ll see to it,” he says. 
> 
> “A drink would be nice,” Richelieu calls after. “And a cushion for the chair; some of us don’t have much of natural padding, you know.”
> 
> Jean had better take his time, the pile of papers looks poorly filled out. 
> 
> Jean had better bloody take his time.


	11. home is where the cat is [Modern AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richelieu leaves for a business trip and has to leave his cats (five of them) with Treville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot this stupid old thing lmao. for grabmotte's 'cute things about trevilieu and cats'. i just go down trevilieu tag and there's stuff like that lost in the blog

“Here’s the cat food, if it runs out — it shouldn’t but in case it does — I wrote the name and the shop address.”

Treville tried to distract this nutter with sex. It worked for a while but now Richelieu’s running late, running around the bedroom like a headless chicken, throwing his clothes inside a small black suitcase, simultaneously texting his PA, requesting for an Uber and prattling instructions at Treville.

“If something happens, here’s the number of the vet clinic and if it comes to that call me immediately—”

Treville impatiently throws his hands into the air.

“Richelieu, for goodness sake, it’s only five days! I can just leave them with enough food and water and they’ll be fine.”

He looks at him with an expression of such hurt and betrayal that Treville can’t help himself but laugh.

“Listen,” he comes closer and cups his hands around Richelieu’s arms. “I can manage. I had goldfish when I was twelve. I’m experienced. And we have dogs at our precinct. I’m not entirely clueless when it comes to pets.”

“You will be on your own,” Richelieu reminds him. Treville uses this moment of respite and sits the man down on the bed, so he can pack his suitcase in peace. “The kids are away on a school trip, are you sure you will manage?”

“Yes. We get on.” Richelieu raises his eyebrow and Treville amends, “mostly. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Hm.”

“They will miss you terribly,” Treville continues. “And so will I, because even though you are a crazy, obsessive cat lady, I still love you.”

Five days, a tenuous bond forged between Treville and the cats, seventy two worried texts, twenty five annoyed replies and a welcoming blowjob later, Richelieu says, still slightly out of breath:

“Well, Captain. I am truly impressed by your experience.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've written so much garbage over the years in trevilieu fandom and i continue to do so.


	12. lord of the cats [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-irish-rover: What about little Louis being desperate for a cuddle but he doesn't know how to ask (thanks to his mother) so he always cuddles with the cats and complains to them but one of the other housemates hears him and kinda teaches him cuddling is appreciated?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep finding some new tidbits, like, where do they all come from??

“Oh,” Richelieu leans against the doorframe. “And here I wondered where they all went.”

He attempts for funny and approachable look. Judging by Louis’ bent head and hunched shoulders, Richelieu fails spectacularly.

“Sorry,” Louis mumbles. Soumise lazily opens her eye, notices the state of her master, and goes back to sleep, sprawled across Louis’ lap. Thisbe and Pyramus don’t even acknowledge his presence.

“No, it’s okay.” _‘I guess,’_ Richelieu adds in his head. “Uh, I just thought…”

 _‘Get it together,’_ he chides himself irritably. _‘He’s eight; you are in your forties and have experience of working undercover for Ministry of Defence.’_

Louis looks at him, expectant.

“How was your day?” he blurts out.

Louis shifts uncomfortably. Soumise wakes up, disturbed and annoyed. She stretches and jumps off Louis’ lap, trotting out of the room.

The boy looks distraught and desperate, hands clutching the duvet, trying not to trouble two of the cats sleeping against his feet.

Great. Great job.

Richelieu came to offer comfort to a child who was desperately in need of one, and now he just snatched away the only source of comfort the boy thought he had.

 _‘God,’_ he asks silently. _‘Why can’t I talk to these children with so much as an ounce of sense?’_

“Mine was good, only if my colleague wasn’t so annoying,” Richelieu starts, walking closer to Louis’ bed. He hesitantly pats the edge, silently asking. Louis scoots over and Richelieu sits. “He said the wrong thing and I obviously thought it to be ludicrous and we spent an entire afternoon arguing.”

“Maths lesson was alright,” Louis replies reluctantly and out of politeness. “I mean, the teacher is boring but the topic wasn’t so hard…”

“I had tuna sandwich for lunch.”

“Fish fingers and chips. They’ve run out of ketchup, so I had to eat it with barbecue sauce.”

“Disgusting,” Richelieu hesitantly puts his hand on the pillow next to a mop of dark hair. He used to have dark hair. That’s where their similarities ended. He looks nothing like his children for obvious reasons, the reasons everyone around him never fail to remind him.

“Music teacher is a very nice lady.” Louis moves and Richelieu manages to lean on the headboard, suddenly feeling all the exhaustion pent up from too little sleep and too much stress. “We sang the—”

Richelieu closes his eyes and feels a movement against his side. Louis unconsciously moves closer, snuggling against him.

 _‘I need to try and hug him more often,’_ Richelieu thinks. _‘Well, I need to try and hug him in general. And Milady, too. No, scratch the Milady part. Bad idea.’_

Louis talks, excited, until his speech becomes slurred and slow, until he tires of talking and dozes off.

Touch-starved and in need of comfort and softness, all of them rough and damaged. All of them unable to offer what others need. Louis and Milady need loving family and not Richelieu who has no parental skills and struggles to cope with just getting on with daily life.

But they manage.

Louis nestles his forehead against Richelieu’s hand.

They manage indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like 'lord of the flies' but I'm lazy to make up a proper pun, so deal with it.


	13. simple things [Modern!AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> python07: I just got done with a seven day stretch at work. I'm tired. The challenge is tired Richelieu. He and Treville finally have time alone but he's too exhausted to do anything about it. Treville pouts. As much as a man like him can pout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, things got out of hand.

Soumise greeted him with a reproachful meowl. How he, Armand Richelieu, dared to come home so late and leave his cats with that crass plebe who  _eyeballed_  the dry to wet cat food ratio. He tried to muster an ounce of strength to will his face features into an apologetic smile, but she’d already walked away, white tail waggling in silent display of utter indignation.

“Hey,” Treville looked out from the kitchen, eyes crinkling in a smile. His gaze softened. “Oh, you—”

“Yes, I’m very late, has been for a week,” Richelieu cut in with tired irritation.

“You’re tired, hungry, cats are pissed because of whatever,” Treville rolled his eyes. “Come on in, food’s warm. That’ll cheer you up.”

“What’s for dinner, then?” Richelieu asked. He wanted to lean on the nearest horizontal surface and pass out for the next twelve hours. But he missed simple things so acutely. Mundane things like feeding their cats. Having dinner together. Or, for that matter, being in each other presence when both parties were concious.

“Pork and bean casserole. Your favourite.” Treville was uncorking a bottle of wine. Richelieu peered at the label.

“Solved a tough case?” He nodded at the wine glass Treville offered him.

“No, just—” Treville shrugged. “Looks like  _you_  solved a tough case.”

“The PM is finally off to a thirteen hour flight,” Richelieu sat on a chair, a plate of warm casserole in front of him, and couldn’t stifle a contended sigh. “No crisis to avert and no idiots to lecture until tomorrow noon, at least.”

“Seems like you have a morning off,” Treville touched his hand lightly.

“Well, I need to write some e-mails, but yes,” Richelieu smiled around his bite of casserole. “A morning off sounds very appealing.”

“Good,” Treville set his glass aside. “How’s the casserole?”

“Perfect,” Treville raised his eyebrows in challenge. “No, really. Very good. Thank you.”

“Been back from work for quite a bit. Thought you’d appreciate it over the leftover pasta.”

“Hm,” he hummed thoughtfully. Did he miss a date? No, that’s ridiculous. If there was a man on this planet who’s worse at remembering significant milestones than he is that would be Treville.

Richelieu’s gaze wandered around the dining room until it settled on the collar of Treville’s dress shirt. They bought it last year at that tiny shop, around Christmas, perhaps. Or it was a very late November. Richelieu was looking for a new tie; the shop was on their way to the supermarket. They left without a tie, but with a new shirt for Treville. A girl at the counter gushed at the pair of them, handing the paper bag. And then they bought some groceries, adding a pack of biscuits to their cart because Milady was coming. Good shirt, good memory, however mundane. And it brought out the scintillating blue of Treville’s eyes in such a lovely way it made Richelieu— Oh.

Dinner. Wine. A nice shirt.  _Oh._

“Armand?” A warm hand settled on his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles against the sore knot of muscles. “Shall we have an early night?”

“Yeah,” Richelieu stood from his chair to follow.

The cats were inexplicably absent from the master’s bedroom. Richelieu sat on the edge of the bed and started undoing his buttons. He never thought they were so stubborn and so small under his fingers.

“Hey, let me,” Treville batted his hands away gently.

“The dinner was really nice,” Richelieu started, “but may be tonight is not—”

“Yes, it is,” Treville said firmly in his Captain voice. He finished with his buttons, pushed the shirt down his shoulders, freeing Richelieu’s arms from the crisp, sleeves. “Night, in fact, is an incredibly appropriate timing for this.”

Pyjama set was a birthday present. And it had buttons. A lot of buttons which Treville seemed to manage within seconds. Wait, since when the pyjamas—

Oh.

“Oh.” Richelieu found himself being pushed into the soft bedding. Treville followed him a moment after, sliding behind him like a missing half of a whole.

“Shut up,” grumbled Treville into the delicate skin of his nape. “The work will wait. Tonight you are sleeping.”

“But, but…” perplexity fought with exhaustion and prevailed. “Dinner and wine. And the shirt we bought at that place, I mean—”

“No, you didn’t miss an important date,” soft puffs of air tickled the back of his neck. Treville slid his arm around his waist, and Richelieu took his hand automatically. It didn’t require conscious thought, it just happened, a reflex of sorts. “I thought that you’d appreciate a nice, slow shag after you got some sustenance in. But then you walked in, and nice, slow shag can wait until morning. You should look in the mirrors more often. You look horrible.”

“You should work on your pillow talk,” Richelieu mumbled.

It was warm. Quiet. The cats were elsewhere. Soumise will come round; he’ll feed the cats in the morning. Make breakfast. Simple, everyday things. Good things.

“Jean?”

“Hm?”

“We should go grocery shopping. The kids are coming next week.”

“Don’t you have a conference or something?”

“I’ll cancel.” Richelieu considered turning and facing Treville, but he didn’t want to move.

“You? Cancel? Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”

“His husband fed him dinner, got him drunk, and promised a nice, slow shag come morning.”

“Can his husband finally get him to sleep?”

“Said husband can try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/) for a prompt or general screaming


	14. "Stop moving for God's sake, you're only making it worse!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevilieu prompt from anon: "Stop moving for God's sake, you're only making it worse!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humour and angst is my favourite combination of flavours, add your own seasonings to taste. I’m clichéd, but ugh, the satisfaction though. (this turned out to be longer than I intended it to be)

“Stop moving for God’s sake, you’re only making it worse!”

Treville for the life of him didn’t really understand how you can make  _this_  worse. So he continued to do what he’d always done: ignore Richelieu and proceed to do what he thought was best.

The foundation of their over a decade long relationship, come to think about it.

“Treville, stop this right second!”

Treville was a straight-forward man; he approached things with a single-minded determination. He couldn’t afford talking while he worked.

“Shut up,” he finally gritted out. “You’re distracting me.”

“And you are risking bleeding out to death sooner than it is necessary.”

Treville stopped to take a shallow breath and turned to his source of incessant distraction and annoyance.

Richelieu raised his eyebrow and pointedly gestured at their surroundings.

It was Louis’ idea, to create a diversion, when the English dépêches to La Rochelle were intercepted. At first, he was planning to burn the city to the ground, having forgotten that it’s exactly what his troops had been trying to do for the past months to little avail.

‘A plan to kidnap my First Minister,’ Louis raged.

‘Your Majesty,’ Anne tried to reason her husband. ‘I’m sure it’s a mistake. George Buckingham would never have stooped so low; we’ve met him at the ball.’

Louis pouted and when Anne had her eyes elsewhere (unfortunately to France and its future heir, it almost always the case), mouthed something very similar to a condescending ‘women’.

For he loved his Queen, Treville was in full agreement with the King then. Richelieu said nothing on the matter.

‘I cannot believe you take such matters so lightly, that’s not you!’ Treville seethed later, when they been on their way from Aytré.

‘Oh, you know that we are still waiting for the fort’s plans, I cannot leave the castle,’ Richelieu hissed back.

Louis ordered to spread the rumour that Richelieu and he were to head to Île de Ré, ‘There will be a pleasant surprise awaiting for these fools. Leave enough men with the Cardinal to fend off an attack, Captain, prepare an ambush at Pont-de-la-Pierre.’

In another lifetime if such heresy existed, Treville mused often, Louis would’ve made a brilliant military commander. In another distant, distant lifetime.

Of course a small patrol of bloody Huguenots attempted to attack this small, dingy, pokey, damp, slimsy castle. Of course, because it was Treville’s regiment, thank you very much, that small patrol of damned Huguenots was defeated and a word to other musketeers was sent.

That sequence of events brought Treville to a current stalemate. They couldn’t leave because they risked running straight into other Huguenots wandering about, nor actually attempt to do anything but wait for reinforcements.

As Richelieu would gladly point out later, Treville forgot to mention that almost all his men had fallen. As Richelieu would gladly point out later, Treville himself had been wounded, poorly and hastily bandaged, and how could he take it so lightly was beyond him, Richelieu. Actually, Richelieu had been pointing it out to him for the past fifteen minutes.

In short, Treville was livid, bleeding, and in a terribly foul mood.

“Will you sit for a moment?” Richelieu asked primly, as if they were having their usual argue in Paris, not in a dingy, pokey, and sorry excuse for a castle in the middle of nowhere. “Please.”

“They might have the reinforcements standing by.”

“Jean.”

Treville winced. His side throbbed unpleasantly, and he could feel the blood soaking through the cloth. He sank down next to Richelieu, who had the audacity to look as unperturbed on a dirty cold floor as he would during the audience in front of the King.

“Let me,” Richelieu gently uncovered the wound to re-wrap the bandages. “It looks far worse. In fact, it looks absolutely terrible.”

“You overreact. I don’t feel as bad. I’ve been through worse.” May be he did feel a little bit light-headed and tired.

“If you don’t get help within half an hour, you’ll be dead,” Richelieu said flatly and pressed painfully against the gash. “We can’t stop the bleeding.”

“If you weren’t so stubborn and just left for the Île, none of that would have happened.” Treville slumped against the wall. “You are fussing.”

“And you are, quite literally, dying to let Buckingham and the Huguenots to destroy our troops.”

“Ten years ago you weren’t so dramatic,” Treville said.

“Ten years ago you were a reckless Montauban hero who could afford as many wounds as he deemed necessary to get a favour from the King,” Richelieu cut off sharply. “You are the Captain of the King’s Musketeers; you can’t afford dying because your personal feelings cloud your judgement. This is not Vicomté de Saint-Antonin, this is not Montpellier.”

“He was about to stab you! If you’ve forgotten, this entire charade was set up to ensure to prevent it from happening!”

“I had a pistol! There was no need for you to rush headlong to him, unarmed, because with all due respect to your abilities, Captain, the odds for an unarmed Catholic against a Huguenot with a sword are not favourable.” Richelieu was breathing hard, barely keeping his temper at bay. Treville grunted when his fingers dug into his side with way too much force. Treville covered Richelieu’s hand with his own. It trembled, every so faintly, because you didn’t survive in a world of politics for long if you couldn’t control your body language.

But you didn’t spend ten years with a man and failed to learn his every tick and tell.

“Armand, calm down.” It was hard enough to focus and keep awake without Richelieu panicking. Oh, yes, how he could forget, the Cardinal didn’t panic. He, as always, merely pointed out the obvious.

“I hope your new recruit, that chevalier, is as good at sewing as he claims.”

“Armand.”

“I am perfectly calm,” Richelieu said. He exhaled and then breathed in slowly and deliberately.

“No, you are not.” Treville took his hand that was grasping at the dirtied folds of his robes and gripped it as tightly as he could manage. “For once in your life, be honest. You look even worse than I must. If I’m not careful I might believe that you worry about me.”

Richelieu turned his head and stared at him.

“Jean, you are unbelievable,” he said at last. “Of course I worry. You’ve been prancing around the castle, looking for some imaginary Huguenots who must be lurking in the corner. You are wounded and bleeding. And if your musketeers won’t be in time, you’ll bleed out within an hour. Why shouldn’t I worry?”

Richelieu’s voice cracked at the end. Treville didn’t like it.

“It’s been well over a decade,” Treville said gently. He never thought he’d have to be gentle with Richelieu.

“It doesn’t even correlate to this situation in any way.”

“You know, we’ve been through this for more times than it is prudent for the First Minister,” Treville chuckled. “I thought it was you who insisted that politics doesn’t have as much swashbuckling as one might think.”

“It doesn’t.” Richelieu slipped his hand around Treville’s waist to keep the bandage in place. “Unless you and your reckless musketeers who don’t care about the integrity—”

“Well, I care about you,” Treville attempted to shrug but decided against it. “And the integrity of your body parts.”

Richelieu fell silent for a while. The stone against the back of his head was cold, unforgiving, and too vertical for his liking. He decided to lean to the side in search of a better prop.

“So,” Richelieu cleared his throat, “so you decided to be a reckless fool because you care?”

“I thought you didn’t need me to spell it out.” The shoulder under his cheek was bony and uncomfortable under layers of expensive fabric. Treville felt Richelieu’s fingers move in the tight grip of his hand. “I thought we didn’t need to, you know, talk.”

“I think,” Richelieu’s touch was feathery-light, trembling. “I think, on the contrary, we have talked too little.”

“Well,” Treville gasped. “Here’s an opportunity of your lifetime. I can neither walk away nor scream at you.”

“Don’t,” Richelieu asked. “Please, just… just don’t.”

Treville, for probably the first time, relented.

“The musketeers will be here soon,” he said after a while, between laboured and short breaths. “We still have time on our hands to kill.”

“What do you propose?” Richelieu replied tersely, entirely focused on keeping Treville from falling.

Ten years was such a long time, long enough to admit that there was more behind Richelieu’s worry than simple… well, knowing Richelieu, there was hardly anything else behind Richelieu’s worry.

“If I promise you that I will be fine, will you stop?”

“You can’t promise me that,” Richelieu huffed, his voice thin and papery. “There are too many variables. How fast your regiment got the message. The speed of their horses and how rested they were. If you won’t bleed out on my robes before they arrive.”

“There’s a thing called hope. You should try it sometimes.” Treville winced.

“I maintain that hope stayed in Pandora’s Box for the better.” said Richelieu tightly. His hand that was pressing against the gash on Treville’s side must be numb already and most likely covered in bloody crust.

Treville didn’t really know how answer that, so they fell silent for a while. He tried to keep his breathing deep and even, fighting against the temptation to just close his eyes and fall asleep. Richelieu propped his temple on top of Treville’s head.

Ten years was way too long to continue an affair of any kind. Especially if the stakes were so high. Treville rose up the ranks to the point where he couldn’t be a thoughtless young cadet who cared only about excitement of the battlefield. There were decisions to be made. There were decisions to fight tooth and nail against. Treville couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone but Richelieu.

Sentiment. Personal issues clouding his judgement. Care. All things that didn’t belong in the world of politics.

Ten years was too long to continue this.

“I hate it,” Richelieu suddenly said, jostling him out of his half-lucid reverie.

“Hate what?”

“Waiting. Stressing. Worrying. Doing nothing makes me feel—”

“—helpless?”

“—out of control.” Richelieu bit his lip. “I don’t like not controlling things.”

“I have always thought you had an adventurous streak in you. But I was wrong; I mistaken it for a suicidal one. Getting yourself killed is evidently a better option over a possibility of waiting for an hour in my company.” Treville smiled.

“Jean…” a faint wisp of warmth brushed his temple, as if somebody pressed a light kiss on his skin.

“Yes, I know.” Treville lifted their joined hands to his lap. “I know.”

“No, not that.” Richelieu huffed at his inability to express things plainly. Wielding his words at Court, determining the future of nations with a single stroke of a quill, that he could do. When things came to personal issues, the language escaped him. Treville found it almost endearing.

“What? Hear that? Told you my boys won’t let us down.”

“ _Promise me._ ”

The sound of hooves was drawing closer. Treville’s grip on Richelieu’s fingers was still strong and sure.

Ten years was too long for any relationship to last. Hope, amongst many things, wasn’t meant to last that long.

And yet.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/) for more history nerding.


	15. don’t fear the reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discworld!AU. Treville is finally visited by an old friend who came the long way round.

“Who are you?” A sharp edge of a sword touches black fabric and removes the hood from the head.

“Hᴇʟʟᴏ.”

“Oh, finally,” Treville lowers his sword and winces from a sharp jolt of pain in his shoulder. Age is taking its toll. Has been taking it for the past thirty years, in fact. Since… well, doesn’t really matter now. “What took you so long?”

“Wᴇʟʟ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ, ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ sᴏ ғᴀʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ғɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴠɪʟʟᴀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴘ,” Death waves his bony hand with a scythe.

“Let’s go already,” Treville starts to walk decisively. His body remains to sit in the armchair. “Tell me where the hell have you been all that time.”

Death always respected those decisive people who were never afraid of him. Sometimes, they even greeted him as an old friend.

“Yᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ, ɪᴛ's ᴀɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ— ɴᴏ, ᴀ ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴇʀ ᴜᴘs. ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜᴇsᴛ ᴜᴘs ɪɴ ғʀᴀɴᴄᴇ, ɪɴ ғᴀᴄᴛ...”

“So, what did this ‘highest up’ requested of you?” Treville asks nonchalantly. The highest up never liked it when he was late. Another heaven must have opened from such long delay. The delay that took whole thirty years. 

“Hᴇ ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote it literally /years/ ago. I keep finding stuff on my blog.  
> Richelieu misses Treville terribly in the afterlife, but I’d eat my hat if he didn’t bully Death into giving Treville all the time he can possible have.  
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/) for more history nerding.


	16. unprincipled negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-irish-rover: Treville never became a Musketeer but made career in the army, becoming General or Marshal or so. He doesn't have a lot of contact with Richelieu till they have to ride out together with the French Army and hold war council every evening. After maybe two months of travelling they fight over some plans and finally realise they're the only ones left awake in the room.

Treville tilted his head, propping his chin on his thumb and pressing the fingers against his temple.

The headaches were rare for him; there was simply no time for them on the battlefield.

 _‘May be,’_  Treville observed grimly, _‘the headache was usually lieues and lieues away. And now I’m forced to sit around in direct proximity to it.’_

“…And I say, Marshal, that this course of action is unlikely to succeed.”

The headache was tall, bony, fatal, and no, Treville didn’t describe Death.

Many would say otherwise, however. Treville had to admit that they did have a point.

“Marshal, if you don’t find this discussion important to our cause, then perhaps you could propose something better?”

 _‘Lord,’_ Treville looked up at the ceiling and started examining a very large, lovely ornamented chandelier mounted above the table. _‘What are the odds of this wonderful light fixture suddenly breaking off and falling down?’_

Preferably on one very annoying person.

“Cardinal,” Treville sighed and stretched his legs under the table. “You are absolutely right.”

Richelieu allowed himself an infinitesimal smug quirk of his lips. His lips weren’t particularly remarkable, thin and dry, the fact that Treville had discovered over the two months of knowing him. They didn’t form any sensible words, that’s for sure, but Treville was forced to look at Richelieu’s direction for many hours at a time, pretending to actually listen to him. He had an ample time to inspect those lips, for there was nothing better to do.

“Glad we have finally come to a sensible agreement.”

“I do find this discussion of absolutely no significance because I’ve been saying that the siege should continue for the past two months.”

“During our two months long acquaintance I’m afraid you haven’t said anything of import.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

“The opposite side offered a peace treaty.”

“Which I don’t think is necessary because the city will fall in a matter of weeks.”

“Marshal, I assume that the military man like you does not really understands the nature of politics, so I will spell it out for—”

Richelieu was interrupted by a noise.

A majestic noise, but a noise nonetheless.

“Your Majesty?” Richelieu asked carefully.

Louis’ only reaction was to stir slightly and remain in his peaceful and rather unconscious state.

The Foreign Minister was a snorer. Treville never thought he would ever need this information.

“Well,” Treville stood up and stretched his neck. “Seems that His Majesty and the rest of the council found your suggestions rather tiring.”

“You didn’t,” pointed out Richelieu.

“I had two months to practice fighting against your charms.”

Richelieu’s tongue darted out to lick his lips.

“You’ve mentioned that the siege is going to last for a few more weeks,” he finally said. “May be you should practice some more.”

Treville smiled, all teeth and a little bit feral. Richelieu raised his eyebrow in a challenge, but Treville saw his Adam’s apple bob in anticipation.

“Cardinal,” Treville put his hand on the small of his back.

Richelieu let out a scandalised gasp.

…Or perhaps slightly lower. Perhaps. You could never tell with all those layers of clothing. “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> butt-grabbing is non-negotiable.  
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/) for more history nerding.


	17. castling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the-irish-rover: I want pain. Because the kids in camp play about five songs on loop and one of them is Happier by Ed Sheeran and I can't get it out of my head anymore. I want a story from Richelieu's POV after they broke up for real, no chances getting back together, and Treville actually manages to move on really well and Richelieu sees him somewhere and realises he has really, truly lost him and that Treville is happy. PAIIIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at this prompting thing because I never do what people ask xD. I don’t think with all this baggage these two can ever really move on from each other, this universe or the next. Ambiguous open ending though? This is my speciality.

Richelieu was the one to end things.

It was easier than Richelieu thought to avoid each other for that long. Treville was away fighting and climbing up the ranks. He himself was busy with the state affairs.

They had been doing it for long enough to call it a somewhat permanent fixture in each other’s lives. Richelieu’s political career was flourishing; he made himself essential to the King. After the exile he held no hopes of ever making a return, but he did, more powerful than before, hungry for more. Hungry for seeing France at the helm of Europe, himself at the helm of France.

“This will burn you,” Treville said then. Richelieu replied, fervently, with agitation in his eyes, that it would be worth it. And then, much later, he was burning up in Treville’s arms and under his kisses, making up with passion for the brevity of their meetings.

The relationship with Treville was permanent in his life. Other things became permanent. Things like danger. Death threats. Assassination attempts.

“You should be careful,” Treville warned him then.

“I have everything under my control,” Richelieu brushed off.

“Not everything can ever be in control”, Treville shook his head and picked up his doublet. The dawn was breaking, and Treville had to sneak off to the garrison before sunrise.

Richelieu raised his eyebrow in challenge, and Treville laughed, the deep and throaty chuckle of his that always made Richelieu’s mouth dry. “People,” he said, “people and your own feelings are always out of your control.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Richelieu said then. He had been ambitious and arrogant, he still was to this day, but at least nowadays he had far more reasons to be. Back then he’d had little ground to stand on. “You never even attempt to go into politics if you can’t control your emotions.”

“You can make people do things, you can’t make people feel them though,” Treville pointed out. “Sometimes you just have to feel helpless and at mercy of others.”

Richelieu disagreed, but Treville was already leaving, and he couldn’t afford arguing when he could steal one last biting kiss.

Richelieu had made himself essential to the state business. He had influence, he had power. He couldn’t afford things being out of his control, when the well-oiled machine of France was on the cusp of fulfilling its destiny to dominate Europe.

The thing between Treville and him, it wasn’t meant to last that long. Nothing is so long-lasting in that wretched and dark world Richelieu willingly dedicated his life to.

He was the one to end things because he thought it would hurt less that way. He quietly hoped Treville would be strong enough to stop him and faithful enough to stay, but Treville nodded and left as suddenly as he’d appeared in Richelieu’s life.

He was the one to stand like a fool in Louvre, pretending to be politely disinterested and genuinely surprised.

“Cardinal, I’d like you to introduce you to my new Captain of the King’s Musketeers.”

“Captain.” Richelieu squared his shoulders imperceptibly. He knew he cut an impressive figure already, it was his job, after all, to intimidate people, but in this case it was more for his own peace of mind.  _Into the battle_.

“Your Eminence,” Treville touched the brim of his hat. Richelieu looked everywhere but his face, carefully impassive, unmoving and perfectly still. Controlling your body language is easy. Eyes, the traitors, were another thing entirely, and Richelieu couldn’t afford exposing himself like that, not when he’d got that far.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted! You will work together often, after all,” Louis left, oblivious and puerile.

At least some things didn’t change.

“I think congratulations are in order,” broke the silence Richelieu, painfully aware that the hall was acutely deserted of the courtiers for Louvre standards.

“Thank you.” Treville stood there, in the heart of the King’s residence, tall and proud, filling the space with his presence. Unnoticeable at first, once gone its absence was tangeable.

“I’m happy for you,” Richelieu offered.

“You’re lying,” said Treville simply.

“That’s not your business anymore,” it had been quite some time, and Richelieu hadn’t spent it unwisely.

“No, it’s not. But you can’t control people,” shrugged Treville carelessly.

Richelieu smiled, unpleasant and unnerving smile that made everyone who saw it cower.

“You’ll find that this is exactly my daily job, Captain.”

Everyone but Treville.

“Well,” Trevile’s fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword. “It is all you aspired to, Cardinal.”

He aspired to greatness, but there were other things he genuinely wanted.

“Sometimes you have to compromise and give up one thing for another,” answered Richelieu. “Collateral damage.”

“Indeed,” nodded Treville thoughtfully.

“If you think that these choices are easy, you are mistaken.”

Treville returned Richelieu’s smile, twice as unnerving.

“I don’t think about it anymore.”

“Did you?” Richelieu asked quickly.

“I think it’s neither here nor there,” Treville gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, very aware of the emptiness around them. “No longer than you did, I suppose.”

“I do.”

The confession was quiet and brittle, like a faint breath of spring breeze on a harried cheek. It was gone before Richelieu had realised it was there.

“I didn’t want the fond memories to be tainted by things that have to be done,” continued Richelieu quietly. “When the wound festers, it’s better to cauterise it before the disease spreads.”

He had thought about it. He still did, in that absent and theoretical way of what-if’s and never-would-be’s.

“It’s interesting you think it was a disease,” Treville finally said, seemingly unpertrubed by probably the most genuine words Richelieu had said in years. “And it’s interesting how you still think that you know what other people might feel.”

Richelieu stomped the urge to move his hands and settled on feeling the fabric of his red robe at his sides.

“As you said, Captain,” he finally dared to look Treville into the eyes. “It is neither here nor there.”

He didn’t last long, of course. But he lasted longer, than he’d originally anticipated.

“Again, I offer you my congratulations,” finally said Richelieu, looking away. “You seem very happy in your position, I can’t wish anything more for such an accomplished man as you, Captain Treville.”

It would be so easy just to ask, _how have you been_. But Richelieu had been playing the role of a heartless bastard for so long, he wasn’t sure he had been anybody else than that.

He really wanted to know how Treville had been.

The thing between Treville and him, it was never meant to last. Richelieu doubted Treville was all that bothered about it.

God knew how Richelieu wanted it to last.

“I should be going,” Treville looked around for an exit. “New regiment, new men. I’ll see you around.”

“Of course,” Richelieu nodded understandingly. “Good day, Captain,”

“You should sleep more,” Treville noted on his way out.

“You needn’t worry about me.”

“As I have always been saying,” there was a minute pause in his step, but he continued to walk away steadily. “You can’t control what other people feel.”

“Besides,” added Treville, “we will work together often, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> freyalor: "I completely headcanon they’ll be fucking hard in two days"  
> I mean........ isn't it the foundation of their relationship tbh.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/) for more history nerding.


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